Cauldron Dawn

Sick peasantries, wedlock child,

Those village bitches laugh as clowns

Their flesh should tear in snares unbound,

Burn the chapel, Burn the shroud.

Claim the shadow sick one inside

For we are many: For death we ride.

So scream for life, your mere existence,

Torture comes with crafted blisters.

Oil, crush, stab, flat..

Turn their meat into a map.

Leather, tether, pull and whip.

Fold the skin for latitude width.

Emotions of notion kill those beings

Waken minds as machines.

End it, end it, spear & cleave

Bones hold hands on graven steeds.

Rip it, rip it, shudder & sway

take their guilt to earthen graves.

Mortals are wolves—in sheep wool spun,

Black Magick calls to the Cauldron Dawn.